He streaks down the ice, and I feel Brant’s frustration. Brant is a scoring defender, not O’Keefe. It’s not that O’Keefe isn’t allowed to score; it’s about the role they serve. He’s our best defender, should be the last man between our goalie and the other team. Today he’s playing like he wants Brant’s position.
Brant chirps O’Keefe but maintains a defensive position as fury radiates from him.
We win, but Coach is angry. “That type of play won’t get you to June!” he shouts. “A couple of you understood the assignment. Maverick, while sending a pass directly to an opponent is a horrible idea, you fast-tracked the defensiveplayer’s engagement. Brant, you covered the defensive side and protected our goalie.”
Brant’s death grip on his stick loosens, and his forehead vein decreases in size with Coach’s praise.
“O’Keefe, in my office as soon as you shower and change,” Coach barks.
O’Keefe shrugs as if he’s unbothered.
No matter what happens, I have to put the team first. We need capable defenders, and O’Keefe could be great for us.
I won’t be the one to let the team down and let our personal issues sabotage our potential.
Closing my eyes, I practice rhythmic breathing to bring my system off high alert.
This team has fully accepted me for who I am, and going somewhere else feels wrong and possibly unsafe after coming out.
I will do whatever it takes for this team to succeed, with or without O’Keefe.
Chapter 4
Theo O'Keefe
I should feel on top of the world after our preseason win. Coach actually complimented my play. A miracle. But my insides shrivel as I watch King with his mom and stepdad. They smile and lean over the railing to hug him.
I’m too far away to hear what they’re saying, but I’m sure it’s positive encouragement. They would never point out that he flubbed the puck in front of the goal or missed when he tried to check the opposing player into the boards.
“Good game.” Brant up-nods me.
“Thanks.” We’re working out how to play on the same line. It occurs to me I should return his compliment. “You too,” I say, pausing for so long that he’s confused.
This team doesn’t get my sense of humor. My sarcasm is a crime, and my compliments are met with wariness.
The only thing I miss about Boston is my best friend, Sarah. She thinks I’m funny and never judges me. I wish she could move here, but that’s selfish. Instead, I pick up my phone to text her and see a voicemail from fucktwat. I changed my stepfather’s name in my phone right before leaving Boston.
It would be too much to ask to never see the man again, but if I don’t listen to his message, it’ll eat at me.
Turning the volume down, I put my phone to my ear and cringe when I hear his voice.
“What do you think of your performance tonight? Why did I pay for private coaching? You know what will happen if you don’t start playing better. Don’t bother offering excuses.”
I’ve heard his threats a million times. He would never leave a message saying he’ll cut me off and throw me out, but it’s there. John King’s concern is all an act.
A rough hand clips my shoulder, and I spin, arm cocked ready to fight. But my brain catches up; I’m in my locker room and no one here will harm me. Yet.
Mav holds up his hands and steps back. His dirty blond hair sticks up in every direction from sweat and his helmet. “Sorry. Seeing if you want to join the celebration tonight.”
Ace watches my reaction, and I force my muscles to relax.
“I’m not feeling it tonight. Next time,” I lie.
“Do you need a treatment or rubdown?” Ace asks.
“I’ll be fine,” I grit out, unable to keep the annoyance from my voice.
“I’m sure you’ll be fine, but treatments can speed the recovery of aches and pains. We won’t tolerate refusal of proactive remedies.” Ace’s jaw tightens.
